Free Dead Silent by Neil White Page A

quickly for the keys. He shouldn’t have gone there. Now they had a name. His name. He pressed down on the kickstart pedal, and then raced down the bus lane, working quickly through the gears until he was out of sight of the building.
    I sat in my car and thought about Bill Hunter. He had remembered my father’s death and, as soon as he had mentioned it, I knew I would call at the cemetery. It was quiet, and I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, wondering whether I should go in.
    I hadn’t been for a few months; visits had recently become confined to Father’s Day and Christmas and I felt bad about that. I looked along the rows of granite slabs, broken up by the occasional splash of colour from flowers left in memoriam. Our house had memories of him dotted around, his Johnny Cash records, old photographs, but I knew I should visit the grave more often, to keep the dirt from the gold-etched words: ‘Robert Garrett—Beloved Husband and Father’.
    I closed my eyes and swallowed, fought the wetness in my eyes. This was why I didn’t come often—because whenever I saw the patch of grass, I imagined him under the ground, in the box, still and cold. I fought the images, tried to see the grave as merely a marker, a focal point, because that wasn’t how I wanted to remember him. I wanted to thinkof the man who had been in my life, strong and quiet and caring, not the police officer who had been shot in the line of duty.
    Losing both parents had toughened me up, perhaps too much. When I looked at Laura, saw her smile or heard her laugh, or whenever I caught her in an unguarded moment, vulnerable and soft, unlike the tough cop I knew she could be, I felt a need to hold her, to be the strong man. But most times I stopped myself; something inside of me held me back, as if I was waiting for the rejection.
    So maybe losing both parents hadn’t toughened me up at all. Maybe it had made me too fragile, so that I was scared of the knockbacks.
    I turned the key in the ignition.
    ‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ I whispered, ‘but I’m going to have to sell the car.’ Then I laughed at myself. Not really for talking to myself, but because it was about something as trivial as a car. It wasn’t that simple though. My father had owned that car throughout my childhood. It was how I remembered Sunday mornings, my father with a sponge in his hand, washing it down. I had friends at school whose fathers owned better cars than a 1973 Triumph Stag in Calypso Red, but to my father it was a reward for his police work, the drives on sunny days his escape from the humdrum of family life.
    I let my words hang there for a minute or so, just giving him a chance to hear them, to know that I wasn’t being disrespectful. It was my last real connection with my father and somehow I wanted him to know that I was doing it for the right reason, not because I was trying to dim his memory.
    My thoughts were interrupted by my phone ringing. I took a couple of deep breaths before I answered.
    ‘Hello?’
    ‘I’ve got some material for you.’
    I smiled. It was Tony Davies.
    ‘What like?’
    ‘Just the archive stuff we used for the Gilbert anniversary edition. I’ve done you copies. I’ll drop them off later.’
    I thanked him and hung up. I gave a quick salute to the lines of headstones. At least I was making progress.

Chapter Thirteen
    Mike Dobson closed his eyes as he lay back on the sofa. It was one of those summer evenings when the heat never really disappears and the neighbourhood children seem to play too late, the laughs and shrieks drifting in through the open windows.
    The television was on in the corner of the room, but he couldn’t concentrate. Why was it that the memories came back to him so strongly? He could go for months when there was nothing, but then it took just a small thing, like the sight of his naked wife, frigid and cold, or the flowery sweetness of the scent of Chanel. He was swept more than two decades back, and the images